In winter

    all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

             where the wind-bird



with its white eyes

    shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

             Like any of us



he wants to go to sleep,

    but he's restless—

         he has an idea,

             and slowly it unfolds



from under his beating wings

    as long as he stays awake.

         But his big, round music, after all,

             is too breathy to last.



So, it's over.

    In the pine-crown

         he makes his nest,

             he's done all he can.



I don't know the name of this bird,

    I only imagine his glittering beak

         tucked in a white wing

             while the clouds—



which he has summoned

    from the north—

         which he has taught

             to be mild, and silent—



thicken, and begin to fall

    into the world below

         like stars, or the feathers

               of some unimaginable bird



that loves us,

    that is asleep now, and silent—

         that has turned itself

             into snow.
 
 
By Mary Oliver.